


Thanksgiving

by fraternite



Series: Feuilly/happiness [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, otp: Feuilly/letting his friends take care of him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-22 00:32:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2487857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fraternite/pseuds/fraternite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feuilly celebrates Thanksgiving by ending up in the ER.  But at least he's not alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thanksgiving

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so now I'm writing fix-it fic of my own fic? How self-absorbed can you get? But it was so hard for me to write about Feuilly getting seriously ill and not letting his friends help him out (in Carry On) that I had to write a "what should have happened" version.

The glowing red numbers on the alarm clock jumped and danced so much with his coughing that Feuilly could barely make out the time: 2:08. It was Thanksgiving, he realized blearily, pushing himself up on one shaky elbow to take a sip of water.

At the moment, he didn't feel particularly thankful.

He'd caught the cold more than a week ago, and it had been an annoyance, but nothing more. He'd had a stuffed-up nose, a cough, general tiredness. Nothing to be alarmed about. He'd taken care of himself, eating right and getting as much sleep as he could, and he'd expected it to go away on its own after a week or so.

Only it hadn't. After a week of unremarkable winter cold symptoms, his cough had suddenly gotten worse, keeping him up at night and making his chest tight despite all the phlegm it was bringing up. Yesterday, he'd felt cold and a little bit achy all day, and he'd gone to bed at nine o'clock, still trying to convince himself that a good night's sleep was all he needed.

He woke up around midnight, unable to stop coughing. Once he managed to finally catch his breath, he staggered into the bathroom to take a dose of cough syrup and get a drink of water. It didn't help much. He managed, after what felt like ages, to drift back to sleep, but before long he'd woken himself up again. And again. And again.

The red numbers of the alarm clock glared down at him from its place on his dresser, reminding him of how much sleep he was missing.  _It's all right,_ he told himself.  _It's Thanksgiving, I'm off work tomorrow. I can sleep all day if I need to._ Lying there shivering under every blanket he owned, his head pounding, his chest and sides aching from all the coughing, it wasn't much comfort.

Sometime around three-thirty, he managed to fall back asleep again for an hour or two. But then he was up again in the dim predawn, coughing so hard he ended up making himself sick. Trembling with chills and exhaustion, he propped himself on his arms above his bathroom sink and stared blearily at his reflection in the mirror--pallid, with dark smudges under red-rimmed eyes--and wondered what the hell was wrong with him. He took more cough syrup and burrowed under his blankets again, his teeth chattering in between coughing fits. It wasn't until he started to see streaks of rusty blood in what he coughed up into the sink that he gave in and admitted that this wasn't just an ordinary winter cold.

With shaking fingers, he unlocked his phone and dialed Combeferre's number. After three rings, he picked up.

"Hello?" He sounded fuzzy, sleepy, and Feuilly realized it was still way too early to call. He tried to appologize but another bout of coughing cut him off. "Feuilly?" Combeferre said, more alert now. "Is everything okay?"

"Sorry," Feuilly gasped. "I--sorry, I woke you up, didn't I?"

"It's not a problem," Combeferre said quickly. "What's up?"

"I have a--um, a medical question. You said you majored in pre-med in undergrad, so I thought--I didn't know anybody else to . . ."

"I can't promise I'll know the answer, but go ahead."

"I . . . I've had a cold for like a week and a half," Feuilly explained. "But it just got worse yesterday, and now when I, uh, cough up stuff, there's blood in it, and I--I didn't know if that's definitely a hospital-going thing, or--"

" _Yes_ ," Combeferre said firmly. "Yes, go to the hospital. Go to the ER."

"It's not a lot of blood," Feuilly hastened to add. "I mean, it's not like--"

"You should still see a doctor," Combeferre said. "It could be serious, and the sooner you see someone the better. I can be at your place in fifteen minutes--is that okay?"

"No, that's okay," Feuilly said. "It's Thanksgiving, you have plans. I'll be fine. I can get a taxi."

"You are _not_ going to the ER in a taxi," Combeferre said flatly. "I'm coming to get you; I'll be there in fifteen."

He was there in ten. Feuilly pushed himself up off the couch, where he'd collapsed after putting on boots and a coat, and shuffled to the door.

"Hey," he croaked.

Combeferre's face was pinched with concern. "Hey. Are you ready?" Feuilly nodded. "Keys?" Combeferre reminded him before he closed the door.

Feuilly caught himself with the door an inch away from closing and patted down his pockets. Something jingled, and he nodded. "Yeah, they're here."

Outside, it was still night, with everything lit up weirdly with orange streetlamp light--and it was freezing cold. Feuilly started to cough again as soon as the icy air hit his lungs. He tried to keep shuffling along, but halfway down the walk he had to stop, bracing his arms on his knees as his body shook, afraid he was going to throw up again if he couldn't get his lungs under control.

Combeferre's hands were on his shoulders, steadying him. As Feuilly managed to stop coughing for a moment, he heard Combeferre murmuring, "okay, small breaths, good, take it slow," and he realized he was almost leaning against him. After half a minute of tentative, shallow breathing, Feuilly pushed himself shakily upright. Opening his eyes, he saw that the snow in front of him was speckled with pinkish dots.

"I've got water in the car," Combeferre told him, one hand still on his back. "Do you want me to go get it?"

"No," Feuilly gasped. "No, I'm okay."

Inside Combeferre's car, the air was warmed up from the drive over, and it was easier to breathe. Combeferre reached into the backseat and handed Feuilly the tall blue water bottle that he carried everywhere.

"How long have you felt like this?" Combeferre asked as he pulled out of the parking lot.

Feuilly leaned his head back against the headrest. "Just since yesterday," he mumbled. "I don't know why."

"It might be pneumonia," Combeferre suggested. "Especially if it used to be just a cold. If that's the case, they'll give you antibiotics and you'll probably feel a lot better in a day or two." He glanced over at Feuilly. "Still cold?"

Feuilly nodded. He couldn't stop shivering--but then, he'd been cold inside his house, too. Belatedly, he realized he probably had a fever; maybe he should've taken something for it.

Combeferre turned up the heat. "Let me know if it gets too warm for you, okay?"

The emergency room was pretty empty this early in the morning on a holiday, but Feuilly still felt awful about the huge commotion his cough made. He couldn't keep it quiet--but he wasn't so sick that he wasn't aware of how awful he sounded, or of the way the other patients avoided looking at him. He'd put on one of the ER's masks for people with flu symptoms as soon as he came in, but the thin paper didn't seem like it'd really do that much good at stopping germs, and he felt bad for anyone who had to share a room with him.

As the minutes of waiting stretched out into hours, Feuilly got more and more exhausted, and everything started to blur together. He was led back to an examining room; a nurse saw him, and then a doctor, then someone else came to get blood samples. Then there were more tests, and more waiting. It was cold in the examining room, or maybe that was just Feuilly's fever (they said it was a hundred and something; he didn't remember the exact number). He coughed a lot. He shivered uncontrollably until someone draped a blanket around his shoulders, and then he shivered slightly less. He threw up again because he couldn't stop coughing, and a nurse gave him another dose of cough syrup.

All in all, not the way you wanted to spend Thanksgiving.

The one really clear moment was when the doctor told Feuilly she was considering admitting him. Feuilly pulled himself together, shaking his head.

"No, I can't," he said. "I don't have insurance." He'd never stayed the night in a hospital before, at least not since he was a little kid, but he knew enough about the healthcare system to know it was going to cost a lot more than he could afford.

The doctor's forehead puckered. "Well," she said slowly. "It really would be better for you to be somewhere you can be monitored, at least for a day or two. Like I said, it's not  _that_ serious--the bleeding is just from violent coughing, not from deeper in your lungs--but there's still a chance it could turn into something worse."

"Please," Feuilly begged. "I can't pay for a hospital room. Can't I just get antibiotics and go home?"

"All right," she relented, after a long hesitation. "But I need you to promise me that you'll call the hospital if there's any change for the worse, all right?"

Feuilly promised, and she wrote him a perscription and someone else came and took back the blanket and led him through the maze of hallways back to the waiting room. Combeferre looked up from a small paperback that he must have carried in in a coat pocket.

"Okay?"

Feuilly shrugged. "They're letting me go home."

They stopped at the drugstore just across the street to get his antibiotics. Feuilly waited at the pharmacy counter, shoulders hunched against the drafts coming in through the main doors, while Combeferre went to grab some things; Feuilly wasn't sure what and he was too tired to care. The pharmacist had to call his name three times before he heard him.

Back in the car, he curled up in the front seat, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the window, too exhausted to pretend he wasn't miserable. He was cold and it was hard to breathe and everything hurt and he was  _so tired._

"Almost home," Combeferre murmured.

"Mmm."

He was only half aware of getting out of the car, of trudging up the stairs to the third floor, of fumbling the key in the lock. As soon as they were through the door, Combeferre gently took the pharmacy bag from Feuilly's hands.

"Go lie down," he told him. "I'll take care of this."

Feuilly couldn't find it in himself to argue. He surrendered the bag of antibiotics and shuffled over to collapse on the couch. Closing his eyes, he tried to forget about everything.

Combeferre touched him on the shoulder. "Feuilly? Don't go to sleep yet, okay? You need to take the first dose of the antibiotics."

"Okay," Feuilly mumbled.

"I bought some soup at the drugstore, so I can heat that up for you. Or if you have something else that sounds better, I can fix that."

Feuilly pushed himself up to a seated position, stiffling another fit of coughing. "That's okay; I can take care of it. You . . . should get back to your Thanksgiving."

"No, I've got this," Combeferre said. "I don't have any plans for hours still--and even if I did, this is more important." Feuilly started to protest, but Combeferre spoke over him. "Listen, you were just in the emergency room. You should let someone take care of you." He hesitated. "Unless it makes you uncomfortable to have someone here? Be honest."

"It doesn't," Feuilly admitted. A lot of the time, he thought, it  _would_ make him uncomfortable to have someone baby him, to do things for him he was perfectly capable of doing for himself. But right now, he felt too sick to care. And it actually . . . it sounded almost nice.

"Then let me take care of you," Combeferre said, gently pushing him back onto the couch. "So. Is soup okay?"

"Yeah, soup is fine . . . thanks."

"Is there anything else you want? Tea? Water? A blanket?"

"A blanket would be nice," Feuilly admitted. "Or . . or all of them?"

"Where--"

"On my bed."

Combeferre brought out Feuilly's comforter and the two extra blankets he'd piled on the bed the night before, trading them for Feuilly's coat and boots. Underneath three blankets, Feuilly started to feel a little warmer, and he was almost approaching comfortable when Combeferre came back with a bowl of soup. Feuilly ate as much of it as he could manage--despite not having eaten in half a day, he had no appetite--then swallowed the first dose of the antibiotics, wincing as the large pills went down his raw throat.

"Is there anything else you want?" Combeferre asked, pausing on his way out to the kitchen with Feuilly's dishes.

"I just. I want to sleep," Feuilly said, ashamed of the way his voice quivered--but he was  _so tired_ and miserable and he hadn't  _really_ rested in so long.

"That sounds like a good plan," Combeferre said. "Is it okay with you if I stick around here for another hour or two--or would that make you uncomfortable, having me here while you're sleeping? I just want to make sure the antibiotics don't give you nasty side effects or anything."

"That's fine," Feuilly murmured, closing his eyes. "I don't mind." And to his surprise, it really  _didn't_ bother him, knowing someone was there, checking up on him while he slept. It might even have made it easier to get to sleep--either that, or he was tired to the bone--because he was out almost at once.

He woke up to dark shadows in the living room and a painfully dry throat. He pushed himself to his feet, waited for the room to stop spinning, and then shuffled into the kitchen to down a huge glass of water. The oven clock read 4:47. He'd slept for . . . he didn't know how long. But it was a good while.

There was a note on the kitchen table. Feuilly refilled his glass and sat down to read it.

_Feuilly--_

_I hope you're feeling a bit better. Just in case you forget exactly when you took stuff:_

_\- You took the first dose of the antibiotic around 10:00. It's twice a day, so you should take the second dose around ten at night, or right before you go to bed._

_\- Cough syrup/ibuprofen: not since the ER, so you can take another dose as needed any time after about 1:00._

_All the medicine is in the bathroom cupboard, and the rest of the soup is in the fridge on the top shelf (plus another two cans in the cupboard)._

_Can you text me after you wake up? I'll feel better if I know you're okay--and we'd like to bring over some Thanksgiving leftovers so you have something else to eat for the next few days._

_\-- Combeferre_

Feuilly took another set of doses of ibuprofen and cough syrup and then retreated back to the warmth of the blankets on the couch, retrieving his phone from his coat pocket on the way.

_**Me (4:52 pm):** _ _ hey _

_**Combeferre (4:54 pm):** _ _ Hey, how are you feeling? _

_**Me (4:54 pm):** _ _ ok. still not great but a little better than before i guess _

_**Combeferre (4:55 pm):** _ _ Yeah, it takes the antibiotics a day or two to really kick in. You'll feel the effect of them soon. _

_**Combeferre (4:56 pm):** _ _ So, would it be ok if we came by in like an hour to bring you some food? We have TONS of leftovers. _

_**Me (4:56 pm):** _ _ that would be fine, thanks _

_**Combeferre (4:58 pm): (1/2)** _ _ Great! Okay so tell me if there's any of the following you DON'T like: Turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing (vegetarian), green bean casserole, candi _

_**Combeferre (4:58 pm): (2/2)** _ _ ed carrots, beets, ambrosia (like the fruit salad--summer food I know but Courf's idea), rolls, pumpkin pie, apple-pecan pie. _

_**Me (4:59 pm):** _ _ wow that's a lot of cooking. any of that sounds great. _

_**Combeferre (5:01 pm):** _ _ It was a group effort. :) See you around 6! _

Feuilly got up to get something to drink and found that, in addition to the soup, Combeferre had left a box of lemon herbal tea and a jar of honey. Cup of tea in hand, he returned to the couch to browse the eight channels his antenna actually received;  _ A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving _ was on one of the more reliable channels, and he'd only missed a few minutes of it. His phone chimed again with a message from Courfeyrac--improbable promises about the quality of the pumpkin pie, a cryptic string of emoticons, and a "FEEL BETTER SOON" in all caps. Feuilly smiled, sipping his tea and nestling down in the blankets.

Maybe he had more to be thankful for than he'd thought.

 


End file.
